


Flesh and Blood Needs Flesh and Blood

by orphan_account



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Around season 4 or 5, Gen, Mutants, Spencer Reid is on the run
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24696043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In a world where mutated genes are starting to become more frequent, Dr. Reid is somehow converted into one. Knowing he wouldn’t be able to continue his life as normal, he runs.(DISCONTINUED)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

“Clear!”

The shout echoes in the empty house, and JJ almost jumps with how wound up she is.

A couple more affirmatives reverberate in the household before Morgan’s voice cuts through.

“In here,” he says.

The rest almost get their hopes up, but with the way Morgan sounded, they’re not going to like what they find.

Everybody makes their way into the room. “Is that Nichols?” Rossi asks.

Morgan nods, grimacing. “No sign of Reid,”

“Look at these,” Hotch calls, and everyone’s attention shifts. “Open handcuffs- he got away,”

Two pairs of handcuffs rested on the floor, at least four feet apart. They were each still fastened to poles sticking out of the ground, but the part where a hand would slip in is open.

Emily raises an eyebrow. “How’d he manage to get out of those?”

-

Spencer adjusted the hat on his head and ignored the sweat on his palms. 

The cashier was a loud old man with facial hair and a hair obscuring most of his face. Even though Spencer couldn’t see his eyes, he feels like the man would be looking at him with only one.

“What d’you need?” The man asks gruffly.

“I- S- Shower,” he stutters out, fishing for money out of his pockets.

The man grabs his money and slides him a number. The taps on the register are a soothing sound. “You got twenty six cents change,”

He takes it and stalks to the back, where a woman waits for the next shower. If he had to guess, she’s a long haul trucker.

He can feel her eyes on him. She whistles. “Boy,” she starts. “I can tell you got a pretty face, but you looked roughed up to hell,”

He tugs on the brim of his hat. “It’s been a hard couple of days,” he murmurs.

The woman hums. “You work in the streets?”

Spencer feels the red spread to his cheeks, but swallows the protests threatening to spill. “Yeah,” he says. It’s cover- it’s good, believable cover and he should take it.

The woman leans back against the wall. “Used to do a bit a that back in the day. I was never any good at it, only made a couple hundred. And then I got arrested!” She laughs.

Spencer tries to smile, but it comes out more like a grimace. 

“Where you headin’ sweetheart?” She asks.

He clears his throat, millions of lies rushing through his mind. He decides to settle for the truth. “I don’t know,”

The woman hums. “Ah, you’re one a those free spirit types, huh. Well, lemme tell you somethin- I’m goin way up north, five hours at least. I can take you to Missouri, drop you off somewhere, well, populated,”

Spencer looks down at her, taking everything in. Her messy black hair, her stained old clothes, her tanned freckled skin, her flip flops, her kind face- 

Theres a ping, and the door to the shower opens. A half naked old man steps out grumbling, tugging a shirt on. He doesn’t even look at the two of them as he walks out of the gas station.

The woman smiles. “I’ll let you think on it, but have an answer for me by the time I’m back out here,”

He opens his mouth to answer, but no sound comes out. He nods.

-

The team storms back into the police station. Morgan shucks his vest into an empty chair and stares at it. Everyone else files into the conference room, feeling and looking numb.

Emily took to looking at their board, trying to find some sort of missing piece. JJ sat at the table with her hands folded together, staring out a window. Hotch and Rossi stood in the corner, looking like they were about to strike a conversation- but it never came.

Morgan lets out a sigh, willing the frustration and anger out. “Why...” he starts. “Why wasn’t he there,”

It wasn’t a question, and it wasn’t the topic of a conversation. 

“We got everything- even the suicide, we knew the- Richard, wouldn’t be making it out, but...”

Everyone could hear the next part. Morgan didn’t bother finishing it.

Hotch stepped forward, and everyone seemed to lean in. “The keys to the cuffs were found buried in the backyard. They were never used,”

Emily turned her body to the table. “He picked the lock,” she said pointedly.

Reid carries around lock picking items. That’s a fact.

JJ shook her head. “No- the cuffs were to far apart for him to bring his hands together. He couldn’t have...”

A heavy mood settles over the room. It’s thick and suffocating and confusing and unbearable, but at the same time, everyone’s minds were too busy running to really pay attention to it.

The big question everyone’s mulling over-

What happened?

-

“Thank you,” he says for the fifteenth time.

The woman- Melissa- rolls her eyes. “Honey, that is the only thing you’ve been sayin this whole time. You’re puttin me to sleep,”

Spencer looks at her, stunned. “I’m- I’m sorry?”

Melissa raises and eyebrow, then winces when the sun comes shooting through the windshield. She fishes into an overhead compartment for some sunglasses. 

Spencer keeps his eyes trained on the highway. It’s the same highway they’ve been on for over an hour now. One hour, sixteen minutes, and fifty- seven seconds. The sun is starting to set.

“Tell me a story,” Melissa says, startling Spencer out of his thoughts. “What got you out here?”

Spencer’s eyes dart to his lap. “It’s a long story,”

Melissa hums. “Alright. It’s not like we have hours and hours to talk but- alright, what about your childhood?”

Spencer straightens himself up, and tries to straighten his legs out, flexing his knees. “It wasn’t great,” he shrugs. 

Melissa groans. “Cmon. You have to got to have something. Unless you want me to fall asleep at this wheel, you better get a story put together real fast. You haven’t even told me your name!” She says with a shock, as if she just now realized it.

Spencer swallows. 

He can’t be Spencer anymore. He knew the moment he left that house he couldn’t be Spencer Reid anymore. No, Spencer died in that house. 

Everything about him, he has to leave behind. No more genius. No more Vegas. No more... no more Mom. No more FBI. No more of-

His breath hitches, but it’s too quiet for Melissa to hear. 

He can’t get emotional now. That can wait until he’s alone.

His brain works in overdrive, piecing together the most believable story he can come up with.

He lets out a shaky breath.

“My name is Matthew,”

-

They took the plane back to Quantico. After three days with no results, they didn’t have any reason to stay. 

Morgan sits kicked back in a chair, an open file in front of him. 

CSI had thoroughly raked the scene, and what they found added a couple pages to the file.

Morgan rubs his temples. “If he took the money,” he narrates. “That means he’s on the run,” 

Nobody responded. Nobody wanted to think on whatever that meant.

It was a quiet flight home.

-

Melissa stops at a diner in the morning. She shakes Spencer awake, and the boy startles, the cabin of the truck rumbling slightly, causing a photo to fly loose from a corner.

“Where’re we?” He mumbles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Bobby’s,” Melissa grins. 

At Spencer’s confused look, she just tells him to get out of the truck.

“We’re in Texas now,” she says once the both of them are walking in. “I grew up bout a hour from here,”

A bell jingles when they open the door, and a man sitting at the bar turns around and smiles wide. “Melissa,” he welcomes.

“Bobby,” she says, her face red. She starts to sit herself by him at the bar, and Spencer follows suit.

“Who’s this?” Bobby asks, eyeing him up and down.

“This is Matthew,” she says, and Spencer almost freezes up for a second. “Picked him up in Georgia. He’s lookin to start a new life,”

Bobby whistles. “Georgia, huh? Well, good luck gettin back on your feet. Tell you what, I’ll get- hey,” he snaps his fingers at one of the cooks in the back till he grabs her attention. “Get this boy a slice a pie, and-“ Bobby looks him up and down. “- and some sweet tea,”

Melissa and Bobby slip into conversation, and Spencer looks around for a moment. 

The diner is old. There are only two other customers here, both of which look over seventy. The tile is checkerboard and cracked, and the AC sounds like it’s barely running. There’s a radio playing somewhere in the kitchen, along with another radio upfront on a different station. There’s an unused jukebox in the corner, along with several half-dead neon signs talking about beer and Texas.

He blinks and there’s a piece of pie in front of him. He shakes his head and is about to dig in before he stops himself. “Um-“ he wants to slap himself. “I don’t- I can’t pay for this,”

Bobby and Melissa look at him like he grew another head. “It’s on the house, boy,” Bobby says before resuming their conversation.

Spencer doesn’t complain.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s been a week. Hotch is looking at new applicants to fill the position.

They have another case. Everyone gets a temporary distraction from the bone deep loss they’re all feeling. 

Because looking at dead people is so much better.

-

Spencer cries a little when him and Melissa part ways. She gives him her phone number and tells him that if he ever wants to tell her any more stories, she’d be glad to listen.

Spencer tells her that yeah, of course, of course he’ll do that. 

He watches her truck go down the road until it fades into a speck in the heat waves.

He turns around and hefts his new backpack over his shoulder, taking in a deep breath. 

His name is Matthew, and he’s in Kachina Village, Arizona to start a new life.

He ends up walking around for an hour before ending up in a strip mall. He only buys two things- scissors and hair dye. 

There’s a couple of locals that watch him go by, but he ignores them easily. He looks enough like a tourist, what with the backpack, sunglasses, and hat trio.

He spends the rest of the day walking around the town, laying out a mental map. He’s seen three ‘hiring’ signs, and intends to make a visit to each in the morning.

As the sun starts to set, he finds a motel with a coffee shop across from it. He’s suddenly aware of the dull, constant headache he’s been having these past days.

He licks his lips, but forces himself into the motel. He needs to change his hair before he starts settling in.

The motel is cheap, and not surprisingly- there’s stains everywhere, and the almost constant smell of mildew and chlorine.

He finds his room at the end of the hall, and almost, almost collapses in the bed.

He reaches into his bag and grabs the scissors and dye, and positions himself in front of the mirror in the bathroom.

He takes off his hat and his hair falls down. It’s just gotten to the point where it frames his face.

He looks at himself for a moment, running his hand through it in an attempt to get rid of the hat hair.

He starts.

He’s read four books on how to cut hair. He’s always done it himself. Now, it would make him uneasy for someone to stand behind him with a pair of scissors.

He’s done before he realizes it. He runs his hand through it and grits his teeth at the foreign sensation. He’s never had it this short before.

He grabs the dye before he can think about it anymore.

Contrary to his four books on how to cut hair, he’s only read a couple articles on how to dye it. He was only curious after Penelope had come to work one day with bright red hair.

He focuses on the black substance in his roots and tries to ignore his thoughts.

-

He startles awake as usual, and the bulb in the lamp at his bedside table explodes. He jumps out of bed, but his thoughts are too jumbled to process what happened. He stands there shivering, simultaneously sweating buckets.

He wraps his arms around himself, and squints through the pitch black room at the blur of green. The moment he takes a step closer, trying to make out the digits, the alarm clock is flung across the room.

His breaths come in gasps, and his knees give out. He barely catches himself on the bed.

Heat is pulsing from his head down to his feet. He’s hot all around, then he’s cold, then he’s hot.

He’s in a hotel. Is he on a case? It’s pitch black, he must’ve got in late. What time is it? Is it early or late?

A hand reaches up to grab at his head, and the absence of hair jolts him back to the present. It’s a sudden and sharp realization that knocks the breath out of him.

He fumbles along the wall looking for a light switch. It takes him several moments to make his way across the room.

The first thing he notices in the fluorescent light is that his shirt is soaked. It’s a loose grey undershirt, one that’s slightly too big on him, and one that he will probably never wear again. His briefs are damp as well, with sweat, he might add.

He can’t see anything else in the room- he can’t see two feet in front of him. 

Why does he need to? What was he looking for?

He presses his hands into his temples, willing his thoughts in order. First, he was in the cabin. Then- no, no that was a dream. First, he woke up. Then... 

He turns and squints at where the lamp should be. It’s still there- he can see the blur of the white lampshade. But he remembers leaving it on.

He shuffles over, but before he can get too close something nicks his foot.

He squats down. The cut is small, only enough for a drop of blood. Reaching down to the carpet, he picks up shards of glass. Shards from a lightbulb.

The alarm clock. 

He springs up walks back to the light switch. Sure enough, the alarm clock lay there on the ground in pieces. 

He’s pretty sure he’s supposed to panic now. Whatever happened in that cabin- whatever that guy did to him- it’s sticking around. It’s not going away. Yeah, he should be feeling immense panic right about now.

He walks into the bathroom, puts his contacts in, and cleans for the rest of the night.

-

In the morning, he’s exhausted. A quick look in the bathroom mirror shows that the bags under his eyes are even more pronounced than usual, and the stains from the hair dye lining his forehead and hands aren’t helping. 

He’s been wearing the same pair of clothes all week, so he finds a thrift store the moment the sun is up.

He doesn’t find anything he would normally wear. 

He bites his lip when he realizes he would normally be wearing suits.

He settles for the first things he can find in his size- a button up with cacti all over it and a pair of light brown pants. He’s about to check out when the shoes catch his attention- specifically, a pair of plain black converse. 

When he gets back to his motel, he dumps almost all of his clothes. He slips on the new freshly ironed clothes, and takes a step back to look in the mirror.

He looks like a completely different person. He feels sick.

He debates shaving, before deciding not shaving would be even better cover. He throws on a pair of sunglasses before going through everything in his mind about applying for a job.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s been five hours. The sun is at its peak, and he only has one place left to go. The first place was an office job, and he needs to be as far away from the government as possible. On top of that, office jobs sound horrible.

The second place was a nursery, but they had asked for his I.D,. He quickly apologized and backed out as soon as he could. 

The last place was on the other side of town. From the outside, it looked like some kind of bar. It would take him at least another hour of walking to reach, and at that point he would probably be sweating out his hair dye.

His motel is on the way. He could always stop there-

But the coffee shop. Oh, how he’s been craving some of that.

Without even thinking his feet carry him inside, where cool air and sweet music almost dissipate his headache entirely.

“Welcome to Avani’s!” The barista greets. 

Spencer smiles at her, taking in the place for a moment.

It’s small, but cozy. To his left is tables and chairs, and to his right is a library/lounging area. The whole place is insanely clean, and the smell could put him to sleep.

He walks up to the counter before realizing he forgot to bring any money. He hadn’t planned on coming here.

“What can I-“

“Um-“ him and the barista start at the same time.

Spencer blushes red. “Sorry, I forgot to bring any money. I’m- I’m staying at the motel over there?” His voice pitches at the end, and he feels the need to point out the building. The barista tilts her head at him. He clears his throat. “I’ll be right back,”

“Oh,” the barista- Tyler, her name tag reads- says quietly. 

He backs out before jaywalking it to his motel. He struggles putting his key in the lock, and when he opens the door his bed is made. He is honestly surprised a place like this has any sort of employees besides the teenager at the desk.

He grabs a ten, the bill loose in his pocket. He hates the feeling, but he burned his wallet two days ago.

The teen at the desk gives him a wave as he makes his way back over to the cafe.

“Welcome-“ Tyler starts, before clearing her throat. “Welcome back,” she smiles. “What can I get for you?”

Spencer manages a small smile and an awkward laugh. “Yeah- um...” he pushes his sunglasses on top of his head and reads through the menu hanging over him. “Mocha?” He mutters more to himself.

“Any more specific?” Tyler interrupts, and Spencer looks up at her before putting on a nervous smile.

“White chocolate sounds... interesting,” he says, and Tyler punches in his order. 

“Whip?” She asks.

Spencer stares at her. “Whipped cream?”

She nods slowly, looking up at him with an eyebrow raised.

“Yeah- Yes,” he nods. “That sounds- that sounds great,”

“4.15,” she says.

Spencer slips her the ten, and she hands him back his change. 

“You got a name?” She asks as he fumbles the coins back into his pocket.

“Matthew,” he says without looking up. “Isn’t that a Starbucks thing?”

She raises a finger to her lips. “We don’t talk about them here,” she smirks, before turning around to make the drink.

He makes a mental note that she didn’t write his name anywhere before wandering over to the library. 

It’s not much of one. It’s two floor-to-ceiling shelves and one computer. He’s very, very tempted to check the news.

Instead he skims over the titles and finds a couple he’s never heard of before. He’s about to reach for one when a man occupying a beanbag speaks up. 

“You can’t just grab one of the books,” he says pointedly, annoyance dripping in his voice. 

Spencer just stares at him, hand still up to grab the book.

The guy clicks his tongue. “That means stop reaching for it,” 

Spencer quickly puts his arm down. When the guy doesn’t comment any further, he opens his mouth, “So how-“

The guy scoffs and rolls his eyes. “You have to get permission,” he points a pencil in her direction. “Ty, ask her,”

Spencer nods, saying a quiet ‘thank you’, but before he can make his way up to the counter, Tyler made her way over to him. “Mocha,” she says with a grin, handing over the drink. 

He grabs the drink before pointing a thumb back at the books. “Can I borrow one? Or two?”

Tyler furrows her brow at him until her gaze drifts to the man in the beanbag. She gets an annoyed look on her face. She turns back to him. “You don’t have to ask,” she says. “Stop telling people they can’t look at the books- that’s what they’re there for,” she points at the man.

The man rolls his eyes again, and Spencer steps out of the conversation.

“Look,” the man starts. “Just because he’s wearing hipster clothes doesn’t mean he can be trusted. In fact, I think hipster clothes and small cafes are a suspicious match,”

Spencer subconsciously looks down at his shirt. Hipster? He shakes his head and grabs the book- ‘Graveyard Mornings’- and finds his way over to a table.

It’s small. He can probably finish it before he’s down with his drink. 

The occasional car going down the street along with the muted music inside the cafe settles him into a nice rhythm, and he’s halfway through the book when the man from earlier walks up to him, shoving a piece of paper in his face.

“This is an apology,” he says gruffly, before taking the seat across from him. Spencer studies the paper and realizes it’s a drawing of himself sitting at the table. Even though it ignites a small spark of fear, he can’t help but appreciate how well drawn it is.

“Accepted,” he says simply, returning to his book.

The man doesn’t appreciate this, and reaches over to shut the book. “When someone sits across from you, that means you two are about to have a conversation,”

Spencer stares at the man, his jaw hanging loose. “Oh,” he manages. “About what?”

The man rolls his eyes, and Spencer starts to realize he’ll see more of that if he sticks around with this guy. “My name’s Greg. Yours is Matthew,” he says with a raised eyebrow. “We don’t get a lot of visitors out here. What are you doing?”

His gaze falls from Greg’s for a moment, back down to the book at his hands. Apparently he’s been thinking over his answer too long, since Greg taps on the table to get his attention.

“It’s weird when you take long to answer a question like that,” 

Spencer shrugs before he can think any longer. “Here to start over,”

Greg hums. “Well, you picked a pretty shit place to do it. Need any help getting on your feet?” 

Spencer is very, very quick to refuse, but something stops him. He needs the help. Something about this guy is off (besides an obvious personality problem)- whatever it is, it’s... inviting.

He slowly nods. “Yeah, yeah I need some help,”

Greg nods appreciatively. “You can stay at my apartment with me until you get your own,”

Spencer sputters. “Wha- Why?”

Greg looks at him strangely. “What do you mean why? You said you needed help,”

“But that’s-“ he stops himself when he sees the way Greg is looking at him. 

“Cmon. I’ll get you settled in. Tyler can come with us, she got off a couple minutes ago,”

As if on cue, Tyler makes her way over to the two of them, her apron folded and tucked under her arm.

Greg gives him a pat on the shoulder, and Spencer flinches. “Let’s go,” 

Greg pushes himself out of his seat, and Spencer follows suit. Tyler looks at him for a moment before turning to Greg.

“Is he...” she asks quietly. Spencer’s gut coils, and he pretends he didn’t hear anything.

“Yeah, staying with me,” Greg answers, equally quiet.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it weird he’s going by Matthew?

Greg’s apartment was only a half hour walk away, but it felt much longer. The sun was at just the right position to make it feel as if hell boiled over.

They had stopped at the motel long enough for Spencer to check out and grab his things. When all he returned with was his mostly empty backpack, Greg gave him a wide-eyed look, and told him he really did start over.

Greg’s apartment was only slightly bigger than Spencer’s motel room, but it smelled so much better. Getting ‘settled in’ was easy enough as well, considering.

Spencer was to stay on a pull-out couch. While he fixed his bed there, Tyler and Greg were having a conversation in the (only) other room. He went in once he was done, and the talking ceased the moment he opened the door.

His gut cooled the same way as it did earlier, and Tyler kept staring at him with these wide eyes. She seemed to notice, and quickly excused herself. He was about to stop her when Greg called him over.

“She needs to go, and we need to talk,” he says, and if Spencer felt wary before, he certainly did now. Greg sounded completely different. Not to mention his bedroom was loaded with blackout curtains and soundproofed.

Spencer blinked and tried to calm himself down. It’s probably nothing. There’s no way either of them know anything.

Greg takes a seat on the edge of his bed while Spencer stands to the wall beside the door. Greg sighs and sticks a finger in his direction. “You’re like me. And Tyler. You’re like us,”

Wherever he was expecting that to go, it wasn’t there. He sniffs. “You guys are runaways?”

Greg rolls his eyes. “Don’t play dumb,”

Spencer stares. At this point, he genuinely doesn’t know what Greg is talking about. Subconsciously, he’s theorizing to the moon and back- but he tries his best to push his thoughts away.

Greg groans loudly. “Oh my god, are you actually stupid?” When he still doesn’t get a rise out of the other man, Greg looses some of his attitude. He quirks an eyebrow. “Do you really not know what I’m talking about?”

Spencer shakes his head slowly, opting to remain silent.

Greg looks at him warily before starting to search for something in the room. “Y’know,” he starts, “my Grandma- that’s who I got it from- she always said she could tell when another was nearby,”

Spencer starts to bite the inside of his cheek.

“I didn’t believe it until I met Tyler,” he opens a couple drawers but closes them, unsatisfied. “We knew instantly. And then you walked in. At first I thought you just really pissed me off. But I saw you reading that book. That’s your shtick, right?”

He pauses to rifle through another drawer and pulls out a sketch pad, along with a couple of pencils. “Anyway, me and Tyler? We’re the same. Look,”

Greg closes his eyes and touches the pencil to the paper. Spencer watches as his hand starts to move and, slowly but surely, the room they’re standing in comes to perfect light. Every single detail- even the people inside- are shown down to a very find detail.

The drawing takes two minutes, and all Spencer can do is stare in awe for the full of it.

Greg holds it up when he’s done. “That’s what I can do. I think it’s something like over glorified blueprints, but Tyler thinks it’s cool,” he shrugs. “At least it’s not as lame as you- I mean, reading super fast? What the hell do you use that for?” He chuckles.

Spencer doesn’t even comprehend the insult. “So you have- it’s... the- the thing, it’s not... just me?”

Greg shakes his head. “Apparently not. I’ve heard stories about thousands of us, even millions, but I’m a little skeptical,” he shrugs. “So when you read-“

Spencer cuts him off. “Who- no, wait, your Grandma- were you born with this?”

Greg licks his lips, taking in the question. “Yeah. Pretty much everyone is...” he gets a curious glint in his eyes. “And you...?”

Spencer shakes his head. “No... no, someone gave it to me. I- I don’t know how, but...”

Greg whistles. “Now that’s weird. I’ve never heard of anything like that. Why... why?” He scrunches his nose. “And why reading?”

Spencer shakes his head. “What? No, wait, I’m not sure why, but it’s not reading. I can just... I can just do that,”

Greg raises an eyebrow, looking him up and down. Spencer shifts. “What can you do?”

Spencer eyes him nervously. “I don’t- I can’t control it well. I’m not sure how,”

Greg waves a hand for him to continue, but Spencer closes his mouth. “So what is it?” He cues him. 

“I think I can move things with my mind,”

Greg stares at him. The wind outside picks up, howling just a little bit.

“Like on TV?” Greg finally asks.

Spencer shrugs, red spreading across his face. “I don’t know. I don’t know, I’m not sure,”

Greg nods slowly, his eyes drifting to his clock. It reads 6:38 in neon green numbers.

Greg sighs. “You just got here, so you need a job,” it’s not a question, but Spencer nods anyway. “I know a place. They don’t ask questions,”

He walks out of the room, and Spencer has no choice but to follow him. 

“So Tyler-“ he starts, but Greg cuts him off.

“It’s crazy you read that fast,” he says with an edge in his tone, and Spencer gets the feeling to drop the previous subject.

They walk out the front door, and Greg’s keys jingle as he locks it behind them. 

Spencer nods. “Yeah. I guess it is,”

Greg squats down and raises the mat outside his door up, grabbing the key under it. He tosses it to Spencer, who barely catches it.

“That’s yours now,” he says, before taking off.

Spencer watches him go for a second before pocketing the key.

-

Greg ends up taking him to the bar he saw the day before. He doesn’t stay- he talks to an employee briefly, gesturing to Spencer, then says he needs to be somewhere.

The bar is nice and simple. It’s mostly tables and low lighting, just a couple neon signs behind the bar. There’s a couple pool tables where some people are playing, but they’re the only ones there at the moment. He can tell there’s a basement, but he’s unsure if there’s anything actually down there.

The employee from earlier walks up to him, holding his hand out. “Hey, I’m Lucas,” he says.

Spencer takes note of his lisp. “Matthew,” he gives an awkward wave. “I don’t shake hands,”

Lucas nods, smiling a little too wide. “Understandable. Greg says you need a job?” He starts making his way over toward the bar, and Spencer follows.

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m- I’m trying to settle down,”

Lucas gives him another too-wide smile. Spencer wonders if that’s just his actual smile. “Are you any good at making drinks? Ever done it before?”

Spencer shakes his head to both.

“Looks like you’ll be working up here with me. We needed another waiter anyway,” 

He landed the job. He still had to talk to the manager, who’s a six foot tall, pale, dark-headed goth named Jessica. She seemed to like him.

He was right about the basement. Apparently the bar doubles as a night club- specifically, a gay night club. Jessica laughed when she told him that, saying the he didn’t have to work down there if he didn’t want to. Spencer was about to apologize- he felt like his terrified look warranted an apology- but she waved him off.

He starts in two days.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s been two weeks. The files from _the_ case still sit on everyone’s desk. Penelope always has it pulled up on at least one monitor.

They have a replacement now. Everyone’s still referring to him as a ‘stand-in’ in their heads. He’s good at what he does. But he’s not Spencer.

Penelope goes home and cries on their first case with him. 

-

It’s been a month, and Spencer- Matthew. Matthew. He’s starting to refer to himself as Matthew even in his head now.

It’s been a month, and Matthew is steady. He’s starting to look at places for himself, and there’s a space open in the same building as Greg.

Sometimes while he’s getting ready for work, he’ll be tying the apron around himself and his hands will stop cooperating. 

He remembers when he wore suits. He remembers when he did more than hand people alcoholic drinks. He remembers when he was out there helping people, when he was saving lives, reuniting families, and putting people in jail.

Then his mind drifts back to the cabin. 

-

“I need water,” he whispers. His mouth is impossibly dry. He doesn’t sweat even though the heat is unbearable.

Nichols, the unsub, sat across from him. The two of them were so roughed up the only difference was that one was chained down.

“I don’t have anymore,” Nichols whispers back.

Spencer lowers his head, trying to look at the man. His eyes won’t focus. “Richard,” he almost forgets what he was going to say. “We are going to die out here if you don’t go out and get some,”

Nichols bursts into tears. At the time, Spencer had no idea why. “I can’t,” he whimpers. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,”

-

Matthew snaps back to himself when he tightens the knot. 

He can’t go back to suits and ties. He’ll never be able to.

The bar as been nice to him. Mateo, the bartender, has started to teach him how to make drinks. Actually making the drinks isn’t the hard part. Really, he’s amazing at being able to get the exact amount of liquid everything needs.

The hard part is the performance. Mateo won’t let him work the bar until he can make the drinks and look good while doing it. 

When it’s late, Matthew can feel the bass from the club pulse from underneath his feet. He still hadn’t been down there, and doesn’t plan on it. Every time he pictures it, he sees bright lights, loud music, and lots of people- basically the opposite of where he would ever want to be.

On top of that, watching the different kinds of patrons make their way down those steps makes it seem like a whole different world. For one, everyone is dressed very femininely. Even the men. He knew it was supposed to be a secret homosexual thing, but he still feels very out of place watching people come out of there. 

He always finds himself staring. Not in a rude way- he doesn’t mind how people live their lives. 

He’s just always been intrigued by fashion. Really, art in general. But mostly fashion.

His heart has and always will be set on a vintage style. Nothing can compare to it. He misses his old clothes. Now he wears loose button ups and tight pants. They’re no tighter than his work pants, but with the loose shirt it’s a jarring combo. 

He’s seen effeminate and alternative fashion in magazines, but never in person. So he can’t help but study the way one man comes in wearing a cropped top and very short shorts, or another with a tight t-shirt and a skirt on. 

He always gets weird looks. Then he thinks that those people probably think he’s judging them, and he’s so wrapped up in that fact that he forgets to looks away. 

There’s been more than a couple comments to Jessica about his staring. She hasn’t told him about it, but he knows.

Mateo’s normally the one to call him out on it. Matthew will get wrapped up in a flurry of neon colors hurrying to the basement, and Mateo will throw a dirty rag at him before handing off some drinks.

Lucas has been nice. He’s been getting more distant. Matthew notices the bags under his eyes and the way his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes anymore. But he can’t say anything.

Acting unobservant has been the hardest part. He’s already blown his reading pace, but everything else is still wrapped up tight. 

After hours, when they’re cleaning everything, Mateo always turns on re-runs of a show called ‘Wheel of Fortune’. Mateo is surprisingly good at it, but Lucas claims it’s because he’s memorized every episode’s answers.

It takes Matthew an average of fifteen seconds to solve it. Fifteen seconds to run thought the hundreds- sometimes thousands- of possibilities.

He had to get used to not saying the answer the second he knew what it was. He’s never not scratched that itch, he’s never held back like that. In a way, it’s exhausting, and he hates it. He hates it so much.

Sometimes there’s one he can’t solve, and those are always the best. It’s always some sort of pop-culture question, and even after the answer is given, he won’t even know what it is.

It’s moments like those that make him wonder if this is how his life could have ended up. If he had the average IQ, if he never joined the FBI, if he was able to get a firm hold on the ever-changing beast of social constructs- if he did all of that, is this how his life would be?

Sometimes it’s not bad. So far, the longest he’s gone without thinking about what he’s left behind was three hours. And those three hours were full of bliss.

It was a regular three hours. It was a Thursday night, and they weren’t busy. Mateo accidentally dropped a near-empty bottle of Whiskey after trying out a crazy new trick. They had spent a half hour cleaning up the sticky drink and glass shards, and Mateo cursed the whole time.

All Lucas did was laugh. He was happier then.

Matthew’s been learning how to be happier. He’s been learning lots of things, especially about whatever Richard Nichols did to him in that cabin.

Greg and Tyler have been trying to work with him to get whatever he has under control.

He fought them for the first couple of weeks, until one night he woke from a nightmare to half the apartment floating three feet in the air. When he opened his eyes, everything fell to the ground, and Greg ran out of his room brandishing a gun, pointing it at things like a madman.

After that, they had what Tyler dubbed ‘Mutant School’. 

It made him a little sick being called a mutant. 

No matter what he thinks, he’s gotten slightly more control. It would help if any of them had even the slightest idea of what they were doing.

It took two weeks straight just for him to be able to nudge a pencil. He’s been stuck there- he’s been able to move it at about three nudges per minute, but that’s really pushing his limits.

All in all, he’s settling in. It’s a weird feeling, it almost feels like it should be taboo. But, for the first time in his life, he has friends outside of work. Actual, legitimate friends. 

At night, he runs through the possibilities of what would have happened if Greg never talked to him, or if he’d never gone to the café at all. He tries to shake that feeling of unneeded dread, but it settles like tar at the pit of his stomach.

He rolls over and shuts his eyes tighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a while it’ll probably just be snippets of Spencer’s new life, and how he’s dealin with it all. Let me know if there’s anything in particular you guys wanna see- this man’s gotta long life ahead of him.


End file.
